


Father's Occupation

by TramGirl



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Folly adjacent, Gen, In-Jokes, Inspired by Real Events, Paperwork, Slice of Life, Tea, Wizards, World War II, office bromance if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28265172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TramGirl/pseuds/TramGirl
Summary: In the Office of Special Projects Research, two Casterbrook alumni review all official wartime correspondence and paperwork which might need further special research. Smart or humorous answers are not appreciated. This is the story of why Michael joined the war later than he wanted to and why John the 'Keen' got an official, polite, no thank you from HM's government.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	Father's Occupation

_War Ministry, London, October 1939  
Office of Special Projects Research_

“Got another one for you, sir,” Frank Dawes announced, waving a manila envelope in lieu of a normal greeting.

“Good morning to you, too,” Maj. Francis Stewart replied, taking the envelope with little enthusiasm and shutting the door of their cramped little windowless office. “Mad or magic?” he asked, slowly making his way to his customary seat at the other, less cluttered, desk in the room. 

“That’s for you tell me, sir,” Dawes said. “I’ll just nip out for our chai.”

It said something about the Office of Special Projects Research that it was so far away from any sources of refreshment, that by the time Dawes returned with something (that in no way resembled the chai of Stewart’s Anglo-Indian upbringing) it would be cold. It said something too, that its personnel consisted of the Jackdaw (the only scholarship boy to be expelled from Casterbrook for theft) and the Cardinal (at one point the only Catholic at Casterbrook). What it said was words to the effect of: ‘You do not matter very much. But someone has to do this job and we cannot waste more qualified individuals’.

Stewart didn’t really want to open the envelope and start work, at least not without something warm to drink and the chance to wake himself up. The problem was that he hadn’t had much sleep. His leg had ached so badly all night, the shrapnel in it being a fairly reliable indicator of rain and it was October in London, so it would be nothing but rain, rain and more rain. Rain, freezing rain, until everything and everyone was soaked and shivering. Rain until you’d never get warm again, never be dry or feel clean, rain turning everything to mud, mud up to your knees…

“I’ve got our tea, sir,” Dawes said from a long, long way away.

Stewart hadn’t heard the office door’s customary squeak but he blinked at the tea which had appeared on his desk and glanced over at Dawes’ desk to see the man himself apparently too busy with his work to meet Stewart’s eyes. “I could get another chair so you could put your leg up, sir,” he suggested, but only after Stewart had started drinking the lukewarm tea.

Somewhat restored, even if it was certainly not all that chai should be, Stewart gave the time honored response to that possible solution. “There’s no room for another chair. We can barely turn around in here as it is.” He opened the manilla folder. He needed the distraction of work now. “Almost certainly a practical joker,” he concluded after a momentary glance at the offending documents. “Though I’ll have a quick look in the book to be sure, just for form's sake. If he’s not in the book I suppose we’ll have to do an interview to be sure and hold his application until it’s passed.” 

Stewart took the desk-key from its customary place in the depths of his right trouser pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk to take out the classified register. This was an older edition and a few new entries of names and numbers had been made hastily in pen on the end pages. But, scanning the lists, Stewart found there were only a few Toddes and a Tomlinson listed amongst the graduates of Casterbrook or other licensed practitioners. Mostly ordinary English surnames, few Germanic interlopers. The name still seemed vaguely familiar, someone in France, perhaps? But that had been such a long time ago.

Michael Tolkien wasn’t being strictly accurate when putting his father’s profession down as ‘wizard’, not unless his father was practicing illegally. “Hold his application. We can say it’s so he can finish at university or something. Do you want to go down to -Cryptography? Was it Cryptography?”

Dawes looked blank and Stewart realized he’d gotten ahead of himself again. “Never mind,” he said. “I just remembered where I saw that name before, only it wasn’t Michael it was John- the father. We’ll hold both of their applications until we can get an interview done, I suppose. Though that means we’ll have to talk to Cryptography first.”

"They're a strange bunch in Cryptography," Dawes opined.

"Not at all normal, like the respectable, useful Office of Special Projects Research?" Stewart was surprised to feel that he was smiling, very slightly.

"No, not at all. And certainly not wizards."

"Perish the thought."

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an anecdote that Michael Tolkien wrote 'Wizard' for father's occupation when filling out his paperwork to join the Army. And based on the idea that someone, somewhere had to read and make sense of that.  
> Francis Stewart takes his name from the Fifth Earl of Bothwell, accused of witchcraft among many other things. Frank Dawes takes his name from nowhere in particular as far as I know.  
> This is my first fiction writing in a while and I don't love it but it's 2020 and writing something is better than writing nothing, I hope. Please forgive any stupid inaccuracies and if you can gently let me know about them, I'd love to hear. At this point I don't know if there will be a second chapter or if this is a standalone drabble.


End file.
